by Daya Daniels
Massaging myself, I accept that this fucking thing isn’t going to go down. I want to jerk off but all I feel right now is rage. It’s getting up to eleven o’clock. When I finish up here, I have plans to hit the fight ring and kick the shit out of someone tonight.
ROUND THREE
Baby
The last four weeks that had gone by were a little less than normal. My nights were filled with more underground fights. Today’s marking on my flesh is a split brow.
My days were filled with meetings, reading depositions, and fetching coffee for Pierce—a job I was certain was Gwyn’s. I never complained. Only waited for the day for him to tell me I’d be promoted with no strings attached.
Just the idea of it now, sounds more ridiculous than ever. Promoted. Yeah, right.
Did I even win that fight?
I’d not only agreed all those weeks ago to that fight, but I’d also allowed him to fuck me—which wasn’t part of the plan. Now, he acts as if I don’t exist which I find amusing.
Since then, I’d felt different—maybe even somewhat exposed like a wound that had been cut open and it hadn’t healed. It’s only festering, becoming infected with anger, rage, and rejection. And somehow, I know the only person who can sew it up and heal me is him.
Does that make me a pussy?
As usual, Pierce had been standoffish, pretending not to know me, ignoring my existence. It seemed like I’d either need to be bleeding from the neck or on fire for him to even acknowledge I was a living, breathing human being. To him, it’s possible I’m nothing at all. Thinking about it only pissed me off. I was subdued in the office by day, but at night, I took everything out on my next victim in the ring, practically beating each opponent half to death before the night was out. But no matter how many fights I’d been in, I didn’t feel any better.
It didn’t matter how many knockouts, how many injuries I’d inflicted or how many times the thick crowds screamed War Baby, the ache was still there. The sinking feeling I’d been used, maybe even mind-fucked and there was nothing I could do about it.
I’d been dropped inside the maze that was Pierce Baron Carlisle and I didn’t know if I’d find my way out. It’s possible it’s this way by design. Maybe you aren’t supposed to get out?
It’s just after four o’clock and the sun outside is setting. I have a spectacular view from my tiny office of the city. Staring at the stack of orange files that rests on the corner of it, I realize before the night is out I have a case to discuss with Pierce.
Fuck.
I hadn’t seen him all day and was dying to keep it that way.
I take a deep breath, checking my watch again. This place had sucked so many long days and nights away from me. Much of the time, I left here in my suit and went straight to the ring like I would tonight. Pushing up to stand, I snatch the files and head down the hallway to find the double doors to his massive office already open.
The fireplace is lit and low music echoes throughout the room. It’s something catchy and light I recognize as “I Wanna Be Yours” by Arctic Monkeys. I scan the room to find Pierce standing near the built-in shelves holding a book in his hands.
“Please come in,” he calls out, without making eye contact. “Shut the doors behind you and lock them.”
I do as he says and head over to the lounge area, placing the files in the center of the coffee table. I remove my suit jacket and take a seat.
Pierce mumbles something to himself, flipping through the pages.
He’s dressed impeccably as always. He’s wearing everything besides the jacket which goes with his three-piece blue suit—a white Oxford shirt, vest, navy-blue dress pants and brown shoes. His tie has been removed and the shirt he’s wearing is undone two buttons from the top.
In these last few weeks, I’d had a haircut nearly every week. I shaved every morning and made my best effort to keep my injuries at a minimum. I didn’t know why the fuck I now even cared.
He shuts the book with a loud clap and heads in my direction still holding it, his shoes loud against the shiny wooden floors.
He tosses it down on the table and takes a seat on the sofa next to me, the thick air between us is filled with the delicious scent of his cologne that feels like poison in my lungs right now. I ignore his presence that swallows up all the available air in the room, reach forward and flip open the file to pull out a few papers.
“After reading through the file and meeting with the client a number of times over the past week, my recommendation in the Banks matter is...”
Before I can get a word out, warm lips touch mine and a greedy tongue laced with sweet bourbon searches my mouth. I allow myself to be wrapped up in his kiss for a long moment before expertly sliding out of his grip, scooting to the edge of the sofa.
Pierce sighs and wipes his mouth.
I turn to the next page in the file and clear my throat.
“I see you’re still fighting. I thought you promised you wouldn’t anymore.”
I laugh without meeting his hypnotizing eyes. “I guess I’m not the only one around here who doesn’t keep my word.”
Pierce chuckles but doesn’t elaborate on his thoughts. I continue to outline my recommendations on the Banks case, while he keeps the attention span of a two-year-old. A heavy hand rests on my thigh, inching up toward my groin.
I shift away from him and continue flipping through the pages.
“Baby,” he says, his deep voice endearing and soft.
I jerk my eyes up from the file to meet his. “What?”
He palms my face with his large hands. “I don’t mean to make you feel this way.”
I only laugh and give him a hard stare. “And how would that be?”
He sighs. “Used. Forgotten. Misunderstood.”
Fucker.
“What makes you think I feel anything?” I ask, quirking a brow in his direction.
Protect yourself at all times—number one fight rule.
He removes his hands and runs one over his jaw. He relaxes against the back of the sofa next to me and crosses his legs at the knee, while he stares in the direction of the fireplace for a long moment. “When I was a boy, I had a bird—a canary. I used to watch it for hours, day and night.” He continues. “It used to jump and sing, desperate to be freed from its cage. I was scared stiff to release it, terrified it would run away and I’d never see it again.”
I give him a blank look, while he stands and heads over to the bar, filling two glasses with something that looks a lot like gasoline. I plan to fight tonight. I can’t drink.
“I loved that little bird,” he says looking off to the right of him at nothing.
Huh?
“So, one day I let it out. And do you know what it did?”
“No,” I deadpan, completely uninterested in this fucking riddle.
He snickers, picking up the glasses and heads back over to where he’d just sat next to me, bringing the full bottle of whatever he’d poured along with him. He shoves a glass in my direction, before setting the bottle down. Reluctantly, I take it.
Easing down into the leather seat, he sighs. “Well, I opened its cage and let it out.”
“And.”
“It remained by my side.” He laughs. “It never left me. It hopped and flew a little. Some days, maybe even a lot, but never too far from me.” He shakes his head amused.
Then, he downs the contents of his glass in one long gulp. I focus on his Adam’s apple that bobs with the swallow and the gold pinky ring that remains on his left hand. He pours himself another drink and nudges it in my direction, silently asking me to join him.
I wrap my hand around the cool tumbler, feeling the condensation gathered on the outside of it—cold, like how the man sitting next to me is sometimes. Right now, he’s open and talkative. Less like a block of ice. Now, he’s more like the embers that crackle and pop in the large fireplace across the room—burning hot.
I finish my drink with a loud exhale and keep the glass in both hands, st
aring at my shoes on the floor.
“I know why you fight, Baby.”
I lift my head and narrow my eyes at his words. Even I don’t know why I fight. Or, why I’m addicted to it. Why sometimes it seems to control my life, rather than the other way around. Having an opinion about something I did and claiming to know me better than I knew myself were two different things entirely.
Is he trying to get a rise out of me?
He smiles that smile of his that, at first glance, appears endearing when it really is only arrogant. Presumptuous. Fucking superior.
Warm fingers drag over my jawline and then through my hair, making it messy, his lips only an inch from mine. “Pent-up rage is never healthy, Baby.”
“And multiple personalities are?”
He laughs again, dragging his lips over mine, nibbling on the top one and sucking it into his mouth.
“Don’t try to get in my head, Pierce. You won’t like it there,” I mumble.
“I understand you,” he says before he plunges his tongue deep into my mouth. “More than you think.”
I fall into the kiss, breathless and hard as hell after the last few weeks of not being touched. And for some reason not wanting to touch anyone else but him. His weight is on top of mine. His hard cock brushes the inside of my thigh. Our heavy breaths and masculine scent mixing, filling the air with the crisp, spicy scent of cologne and aftershave and the natural scent of sweat. Deft fingers unbutton my shirt frantically to the fourth button pushing it off my shoulders. Warm lips wrap around my nipples, sucking each one slow and hard, leaving wet patches where those supple lips had just released.
“You like power, Baby, but so do I,” he whispers. “I live for it, but I want to give you some of it back.”
I’m breathing heavy, panting hard, my cock threatening to rip through the 100% cotton of my BOSS boxer briefs. He undoes the zipper of my dress pants and kisses me hard.
I moan but it’s mushed by anxious lips and tongue that assault me, sucking me into a desperate kiss. A rub over my dick with his large hand is followed by a squeeze. Another rub, until he slides his hand into the slit of my boxer briefs and his open palm glides over my hot flesh. His other hand splays against my chest, easing me back against the studded leather sofa.
Taking a deep breath, I fall deeper into the cozy spot, widening my legs and allowing him in between them when he descends to his knees in front of me. With curiosity and hunger in those stormy gray eyes, he pulls my cock out, massaging my balls.
“This thing is fucking exquisite,” he says, admiring it.
I’ve never had any complaints.
It stands at attention between us, the head of it pink and swollen, already dripping with precum.
His hand strokes me slow and I growl when his mouth sheathes my swollen length, taking me deep, allowing it to snake down his hot throat. The sight in front of me is spectacular. I run my hands through his freshly cut hair, while his head bobs in my lap, sucking and licking at my flesh, making a slow trail along the shaft from base to tip, causing it to twitch and jerk in his grasp until I’m whimpering like a little bitch.
Heavy-lidded and stroking his chin with my thumb, I smile at the sight in front of me. I feel worshipped. The powerful king—Pierce Baron Carlisle—at his knees in front of me in supplication with his lips wrapped around my meat...willingly, giving it the royal treatment as if it’s made out of fucking gold.
One of his hands grips my thigh while the other works feverishly in sync with his mouth along my cock. A series of labored grunts leave my throat, when I come loud and hoarse, appreciating the release. He makes no move to release me. I jerk and throb hard, flooding his mouth with a wave of my cum.
Things go quiet when I focus on his face that’s flush and the dribbles of cum that coat his swollen pink lips. Pierce smiles and then he swallows every drop.
He exhales and pulls a white handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his face. Then, he stands and looks down at me while I rest beneath him with my dick still out, still breathing hard. He folds the used handkerchief into a neat square and reaches into a drawer next to us, tossing me a clean one.
He heads off in the direction of his desk, without saying anything. I bang my head against the back of the leather twice and straighten myself, unable to understand exactly what just happened and begin to fix my clothes.
Standing, I follow. When I get close he gestures for me to sit in the chair on the opposite side of his desk. I swallow thickly and meet his big eyes that look somewhat sad in this moment. He’s posed in his leather chair, legs crossed at the knee and his chin perched up on the knuckles of a closed hand. He holds an envelope in his hand—crisp and white—and slides it across his desk.
I take it. He nods when I make no move to open it. Reluctantly, I slit it with my fingers and slide the typed letter out, reading it to myself.
I fight the smile that threatens to split my face, as my eyes skim the offer letter made out to me. “Partner at Wolster, Brash, & Puck—two hundred and fifty thousand in annual salary, a one-hundred-thousand-dollar signing bonus, housing allowance, company preferred shares, use of the firm’s private jet, forty-five vacation days...” The shocking list of perks goes on.
“You’ll start in thirty days,” he states flatly.
I lift my head from the page to meet his gaze again. “I thought you were holding back with this?”
He sighs. “I’m a man of my word, believe it or not.”
But a new job entirely?
“I don’t understand.”
“Clearly, you have a choice to make, Baby. You can take the offer—new job, new position, more money, etcetera—or you can stay here. It’s your decision. This is my end of the bargain. You did win that fight. I hadn’t forgotten that.”
“I didn’t win,” I say emphatically, suddenly feeling as if he’s throwing me away again.
He laughs softly. “Obviously, I’d like you to make the right choice—the best choice for yourself.”
I shake my head in anger and lift an arm in the direction of where he’d just sucked my dick. “What was that just now?”
He nods with a smile and flicks two fingers up in the air. “I can’t explain, but clearly, if we’re going to be doing that often, you can’t work here any longer. It would be unethical.”
Riddles! Fucking riddles!
I sit dumbfounded, stupefied and at a loss for words. It’s morgue-quiet for a few minutes, while we stare out of the floor-to-ceiling windows ahead that overlook the city.
“I’ll take the job, Pierce,” I say.
“You should. It frees you, at least a little from your family obligations. You’re a brilliant lawyer. You’ll do well. The partners there are very good friends of mine.” He nods. “They’ve promised to take very good care of you. You’re an asset here, Baby, and you’ll be an asset to them as well, once you get there.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, looking at the paper.
His eyes widen, while he waits for my next words which feel like they won’t leave my lips. I’m about to speak but he does before I get a chance to. He stares at his fingers for a beat, then runs them over his dark hair, with a sigh. “I.” He swallows. “There’s a lot I want you to know about me, Baby.” He shifts in his seat and cants forward placing his elbows on his desk. His large hands wipe over his face and if I’m not mistaken he’s nervous about something.
Another sigh leaves his mouth. “I have a poor track record, Baby...when it comes to men.”
I only nod.
“And, not one has ever made me want to try.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
“To give,” he clarifies. “You make me want to give.”
I keep a stone expression but I think I understand.
“And my age,” I say, fiddling with the non-existent wrinkles in my dress pants.
He laughs softly. “It isn’t a concern.”
I’m inclined to say more but I don’t. I only stare as he rises to his feet and shrugs into hi
s suit jacket. “I have a meeting in a few minutes,” he says. “Friday—my place, at six.”
Invitation or demand?
I bob my head and remain in my seat as I watch him saunter away.
He stops at the door. “If you don’t show, then I guess you’re free.” He smiles.
This man is twisting me, confusing me, baiting me in. Maybe, now I’m his little canary in a gilded cage, unable to leave my master even when given the chance to set out on my own.
Tapping the folded pages against my hand, I consider my options. The offer contained in this letter is for the job of a lifetime—a dream I never thought possible, but for some sinking reason, I’m having second thoughts about no longer working for Pierce Baron Carlisle. But I had to leave. I had to take this opportunity.
I’d now be able to free myself from the shackles of Xavier Benedict II until I had access to my trust fund, or at least until he dies...whichever comes first.
Pierce
Baby stands in front of the glass in the den, with his hands in his pockets staring out at the view of the city.
Friday couldn’t have come soon enough. I’d been going out of my mind all week, since I’d last seen him in my office. Later that day, he’d packed up all his belongings from his tiny corner office and told everyone at the firm goodbye. He was gone for good and somewhere deep down I worried I’d never seen him again. At least not in the way I so desperately wanted.
But here he was.
It’s the middle of November. The sun is setting, turning the sky into an orange expanse of fire in the distance. It’s spectacular and the light filters into the room turning it a little warm.
“To Me” by Chet Faker plays on the stereo.
Baby runs a hand through his thick blond hair and twists around just as I approach, extending a glass of red wine to him. He wiggles his toes against the plush cream carpet beneath our feet.
“Thanks,” he mumbles.
I nod and take a long gulp, unsure if any cheers are in order yet. I move to stand next to him savoring the view.
He takes a deep breath. He’s free of his usual bruises which makes me curious, since I’d given up on following him at night, deciding it was a monumental invasion of his privacy, even though I’d known I’d become oddly obsessed with him long ago—not to mention his hair.